


Forward

by propast



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/F, Nagamas, Nagamas 2020, The Future Past DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propast/pseuds/propast
Summary: Tiki considers how much she is willing to give in order to assure someone else's future.
Relationships: Chiki | Tiki & Say'ri
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4
Collections: Nagamas Gifts





	Forward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surprisepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisepink/gifts).



> For surprisepink, aka my Nagamas giftee - happy holidays!
> 
> The prompt was Tiki/Say'ri, Future Past, and tragedy, or the dichotomy of hope and despair. And there were other things, of course, but those were the bits I ended up glomming onto. Thematically, neither character relates very much to the DLC the way the second gen does, so it was really fun finding a workaround in the mythology. I really enjoyed writing this and hope you like it!

* * *

Tiki’s eyes were closed.

Naga was dreaming, but as so often when the divine dragon dreamed, She used Tiki’s thoughts to do so. Her memories were stolen, repurposed; they echoed across time, reflected water with blood, used faces she recognised to whisper words Naga thought she needed to hear. 

Tiki tried to ask: _What do you want from me?_

In her appropriated dreams, Marth smiled grimly. 

She tried again, her words ragged despite the lack of a voice used for them. _It’s too hard. I feel_ —

She felt like someone was trying to pull her teeth out, one at a time, through the back of her head; peeling back flesh and bone, grey matter and sinew, to get there. 

“My lady?” 

A faraway voice broke through the spell. Marth’s expression grew quarrelsome, fierce and proud, as he struggled to hold onto her - to keep her in slumber. He didn’t know she had already slept so long, she had grown womanly with it, and her half-atrophied bones keened for wakefulness. 

No, not Marth. The divine one. Naga Herself. 

Fingers at her shoulder, trying to jostle her awake. _No_ , she whispered; _no_. 

Tiki’s eyelids were heavy as lead. 

Marth was becoming wind. It always ended with wind—when the bones were dust and the skin long sloughed away, feed for the worms and the mud. Every dream, she was forced to see it again, and again, because Her Grace didn’t distinguish between kindness and cruelty, not when the message remained undelivered. 

She tried to shout. Nothing came. The wind pushed back against her, shoving her words back down her throat. 

Tiki’s eyelashes were damp. 

“My Lady, you will catch your death of a cold if you sleep out here, please—”

Tiki’s eyes were open. Moisture sagged down her cheeks. Her head was in someone’s lap; and she blinked. 

“—Say’ri?”

* * *

“Are you alright?”

Sayri’s voice was sharp, pushing through the cold gloaming air. Something desperate and demanding skirted around the edges of her syllables. 

Tiki stumbled through the grass, blinking blearily, cheeks tinged with red; she didn’t realise it, but her feet dragged her toward the raised voices in the centre of the camp. Her thoughts were still sleep-soaked, but even she could figure out - _something had happened_. 

Say’ri tried again. “My lady, please.” 

Tiki shook her head, running her hands over her face. Part of her was still reeling from the untowardness of it all. Falling asleep standing up in the middle of camp was one thing; she could not control where Naga called to her. Remaining in Say’ri’s lap because she could not stand for the dream to end was— it was _mortifying_. Her words were mumbled out. “Say’ri, stop. I do not need a—”

 _Go_. 

Tiki fell to a knee, grimacing as a single word crashed down around her. The air crackled with it, so potent that even Say’ri—utterly ordinary Say’ri; untouched by the divine, no aptitude for magic—lifted her chin and planted her hand at the hilt of her blade. 

“I must - “ Tiki all but choked on the sounds she made, feeling the rogue thunderous energy still crackling through her, “I have to _go_.”

A ways down the beaten path, the arguing voices grew only louder. 

Say’ri didn’t ask only more questions, only provided a silent arm. Tiki accepted, coming to her feet in a waver and leaning against her friend’s taller, comparably solid side. Even as they moved toward the source of the unrest, she felt her eyelids flutter open and closed, open and closed. Brief snatches of rest, of sleep tugging her down - _go, go, go_ \- despite her best efforts. She ended up biting her cheek to keep herself alert. 

By the time they reached the growing gathering of onlookers, Tiki forced herself to stand upright. In the centre of it all was Chrom, looking fierce with formless resolve; Robin, paler than usual, lips pressed white; and Lucina, eyes red and shoulders uncommonly pinched. With Marth’s grim, haunted smile still imprinted on the back of her eyelids, it was impossible not to fixate on the resemblance. The young princess was the spitting image of her erstwhile namesake, and Tiki felt the wistfulness down to her knees and knuckles. 

_Go_. 

Gentler, this time. Only Tiki herself felt it. She bit back a grimace and willed herself to remain composed. Her head felt like it was about to split open. Say’ri, who might have felt her waver, said nothing. 

“Father—” Lucina’s voice was raw.

Chrom’s gaze was open, warm still. As ever. “You have my answer. If you will not trust him, then trust me.” 

Silence. Lucina’s eyes held Robin’s for a long time. When she did turn to leave, it was not alone. Severa was the first to follow; then Gerome, and Laurent quickly behind. Tiki watched all of this through carefully wide eyes, feeling a chill descend upon her bare arms and exposed neck, one that owed nothing to the lateness of the hour nor the rapidly disappearing sun behind the horizon. 

“Is this what you wanted me to see?” She hadn’t meant to ask the words aloud. 

Among the dissipating crowd, only Say’ri was close enough to hear. 

Tiki could feel the weight of her friend’s eyes, and said nothing. 

_Go... forward._

* * *

Grima was slain; and for a brief time, Tiki found herself smiling so uncommonly wide, she thought her cheeks might burst.

The celebrations they had were muted, austere. There had been a lot of loss. But morale was important too, their leaders recognised, and no one among them would speak against some extra food and drink to toast to the health of all. Tiki set herself up in a quieter corner of the revelry, supported by a few odds and ends, resting her head and staring up at the sky. No one looked too askance when she withdrew. She was the Voice, after all; the single conduit between world and sky. Nah would pay her respects on occasion, coming to a knee, steady-throated and eager to serve, but then some of her mother’s energy always shone through and she’d be off again before long. 

It was fine, Tiki thought. Best the younger manakete be with her own, while they could still be as much. 

She wondered when she began to sound so old. When did others become so young in her eyes? At what point in her sleep did she shed off the green of youth? It was inappropriate, certainly, to be so contemplative about her own mortality when they were supposed to be celebrating success, and life. She couldn’t help it. 

So, as the hours and feasting dragged on, her smile waned. Her cheeks were safe from the threat of bursting once more.

Say’ri came to sit with her when streaks of pink sunlight began to return to the sky. When she spoke, her words were blunt. “You are fading.”

Tiki didn’t feel like she was fading. “No.” Her tone was mild. Any offense she felt skirted around it. “I fear the truth of it is… far more severe. Let them carouse and celebrate their victory; I will not upend it until I am… sure.” 

She looked across the room. Owain and Inigo were huddled in a pair, a mountain of food between them, while Yarne hovered close. Nah knelt at her father’s side, cheeks bright with drink. Cynthia squeezed between Cordelia and Sumia, looking from one to the other, speaking a mile a minute—though she was too far away to hear, her babble was recognisable in the fond looks of the pegasus knights she so revered. Neither of them could really understand her tirelessness.. 

Tiki would not infringe on their happiness. Not now, not when those children had had so little of it. Tonight was theirs.

Tomorrow...

Tiki lifted her chin. “We must go forward.”

Say’ri frowned. “My lady?”

Her eyes closed. Sleep was pulling at her; sleep, and dreams. “Tomorrow… Will you accompany me?”

Say’ri didn’t ask where. She simply said — _yes_.

* * *

At the foot of the mountain, Tiki felt thunder in her skull. 

Winter had begun to show itself. Sere frost made the grass crisp under their feet and coated the trees. Say’ri had advised her to take a cloak. Tugging her cape tighter around her arms and back, she wished she had listened. But a chill on her bare arms compared nothing to the reverb in her head. It felt like some feedback going haywire, a broken connection screaming for repair. A vein bulged faintly blue at her temple and her teeth stung with backlash. 

“My lady?” 

A hand at her elbow. She wanted to move away from it but didn’t. 

“I… I am alright,” Tiki replied. She forced her eyes open, forced herself to look up the mountain. “Let’s go.”

They made camp at the first plateau that night. Tiki felt more awake after the sun dipped below the horizon than she ever did it when it touched her skin, lulling her into complacency with its warmth. She had remarked as much to Say’ri, who she expected to be severe and condemning, but instead surprised her by smiling - faint, mysterious - and responded that the wild cats in her village in Chon’sin had been similar. 

Say’ri was sleeping now. It was a restless sleep, Tiki noted, seeing only trouble in the pulsing lay of Say’ri’s brow, the typical arch of severity tugging at her mouth even then. 

Turning her head to the ink-black sky, Tiki asked of it: “What would you do?”

Silence.

Sighing, she turned her attention back to Say’ri. 

For now, it was enough that her dear friend — her _protector_ — was safe. Safe enough to sleep; to surrender herself to whatever nightmares lingered in wait for her at the precipice between slumber and waking. It was not kind to bring Say’ri with her. Tiki knew this. She clung anyway, grateful for the company of the living, relieved to have more than the dreams of ghosts at her heels to talk to. 

It came again. A desperate command, laying siege to her mind, scorching the earth there, burning her thoughts bare. _Go forward_. 

Tiki’s voice carried a command of its own. “Not yet.” Then, like a cat, she stretched out. “Say’ri’s sleeping.” 

Naga — and whatever She needed — could _wait_.

* * *

Say’ri had to carry her those last few miles. Tiki was in too poor shape to be mortified. She kept herself at her friend’s back, arms tucked around her neck, Say’ri’s hands curled around the back of her thighs. Their travel packs had been abandoned some way back; they’d fetch them on the way down if they could remember. Say’ri’s weapon was non-negotiable, though, and it dug into Tiki’s hip rather painfully. 

The summons became louder, frequent, more desperate every moment they came closer. Part of her wanted to eschew her duty and run all the way back down the mountain. She was a disgrace to the long tradition of the Voice and she knew it. 

She was scared.

What more could there be to do? The unassailable Felldragon’s bones were dust, its followers scattered.

Tiki felt barely alive when they reached the gate. 

“My lady.” Say’ri’s voice was like a damp cloth to her brow. Was she feverish? “I cannot go in with you.” 

She felt like weeping. She bit it back, forced her shoulders into the stalwart arc she’d seen on the retreating backs of warriors from long ago, and slipped to the ground. Stood tall. 

“I won’t be long.” Her throat felt too dry. “Pray, wait for me.”

There was no spoken response. There was only Say’ri’s bow of affirmation, fist to heart; chin dipping toward the ground, eyes respectfully obscured from view. 

At the end of a short walk, Tiki laid her forehead to the altar, and - eventually - she _knew_. 

She wept.

* * *

“You are certain?”

Staring into the crackling fire they’d erected, Tiki didn’t mince words. “Yes.”

In her native language, Say’ri swore.

 _If you go, you will die._

Tiki suppressed a shiver. Say’ri was sensitive to it regardless, ears pricked like a wolf. She dropped her own fur-throated vest on Tiki’s shoulders, looking pale and restless in the moonlight.

Even now, with a creeping sense of dread all her own, a burden placed on her… Say’ri did not gainsay, or attempt to bargain. She asked once and then she accepted it, chin lifted, back straight and sure. Of course, she did not know all of it. She couldn’t still smell the sulfur and decaying flesh and blood-stained mud. It wasn’t her forehead that separated that walled off the screams of the dead and dying. She had no idea that Robin’s child was named Morgan and that she had a twin—also named Morgan by some queer little twist—and that there were seeds planted across time, across planes; seeds that would bear Grima after Grima after Grima. 

Say’ri did not know that if she fought in this battle, where a burning future gnashed its teeth on the past, she would never see her home again.

 _If you go, you will die._

If she consented to fight, Tiki thought, it was without clear information. If she didn’t go - if they failed to _go forward_ \- 

How long before that future bled through? Could they truly condemn an Ylisse-that-would-be to fall because they were weary? 

“What will you tell his lordship?”

Chrom. He would want to go, if he knew. His fate was beyond her ken. Tiki could not concretely say whether he would live or die by the battle. But he was a king of his land, the sitting monarch of an empire. She could not justify beseeching him away from the throne for this. 

“Nothing. This fight… It is not for him.” Tiki dared to lift her head, looked Say’ri right in the eye. “Nor… nor you, my friend.” 

A faint twitch in the skin around her eyes. Say’ri wanted to roll her eyes. Tiki fought back a smile when she realised it, ashamed of herself for taking any amusement in her companion now. 

“Fie. I will not discard this journey halfway. To do so would be…” 

Say’ri cut a mighty figure as she paced, restless, around the fire. Tiki watched from her seat. There was repressed grace and fluid purpose in her dear friend’s stride; she was a warrior, after all, and rarely wasted a gesture. The restlessness came from somewhere deep, from frustration she was typically too disciplined to give any weight; from grief, from betrayal. Rather than cutting her down, it suffused her. Made her stronger, made her more than she was. Her eyes were warm, the jut of her chin filled with youthful pride. She was so _beautiful_. This, Tiki thought, and - _so young_. 

_If you go, you will die_. 

Tiki asked, “be what?”

 _If you do not go, we all lose; and they all die_.

The how and why of it, Tiki did not know, just that it would fall out that way. A messenger does not need to understand the message they carry. They simply need to bear it to its destination.

“—Ignoble,” Say’ri finished, her voice roughened. 

Nobility. Tiki knew what she meant. It still made her want to throw stones. A childish tantrum, Say’ri would have called it. 

She found Say’ri’s hand, held her fingers, touched her lips to the knuckle - once, twice, three times, further. Desperate. Thunder had fled her skull, no longer bouncing around between the bones of her nose and the cartilage of her ears. It was replaced by a death knell; by bells ringing and rain washing out a muddy burial. It was replaced by heartbreak; by one versus many, by Naga asking how she could deign to spare one but damn a thousand to death. 

Say’ri’s arms curled around her, her knees dropping to the ground, breath warm on her cheek.

 _You must be very cruel_ , Tiki had told Her, _to pare their worth down to numbers_. She had never dared speak to Naga that way before. 

She truly was a terrible Voice, she thought, throat clotted with a bleak, grim sort of humour. 

Cold hands touched her ribcage, laid too gentle, too tentative. Loving, worshipful. _If you go, you will_ — 

Tiki’s eyes were closed, her eyelids heavy as lead, her eyelashes damp. 

They would talk about that tomorrow.


End file.
